


Deals in Brimstone

by walking_tornado



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Dean, Demonic Possession, Demons, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:38:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4076428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walking_tornado/pseuds/walking_tornado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley wins Dean Winchester's virginity in order to barter it for John Winchester's soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deals in Brimstone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spn_meanttobe prompt #30, _Paying the Virgin's Price_ :  
>  _Chaperon Diana Price knew she was teetering on the edge of ruin. Her father had staked his fortune, and her virginity, at the card table—and lost! To the most notorious gamester in town..._  
>  _Nathan Wardale had money, plenty of it, but it was a long time since he'd been considered a gentleman. Still, he never intended to pursue this debt. Until he met Diana Price in the flesh—and began to wonder just how long his honor would hold out..._

"I'll pay! Please! I just need more time!" 

Crowley, self-styled King of the Crossroads, looked down at the groveling man before him. Two beefy security guards had come up beside him and the man eyed them sideways from where he had collapsed. 

"Look around you," Crowley said, and the man dutifully let his eyes flicker around the room before coming to rest on the man to whom he now owed a enormous sum of money, more than he could possibly pay. "Money, I have," Crowley continued. "It doesn't interest me. Let's talk about alternative forms of payment. You have—" 

"Sir! This could be him." 

Crowley allowed himself to be interrupted. This soul was a sure thing; any of his underlings could seal the deal now. Frankly, it was beneath him to continue talking to the man. He waved his hand and his goons each seized and arm and dragged the sobbing man away. Crowley skirted dangerously with boredom, and he frowned at his security staff but dutifully examined the grainy photo of the man they had brought up on the large wall screen. He didn't look like much: scruffy beard and moustache, worn jeans, plaid shirt over a white tee. At first glance, the mechanic was not someone Azazel should care about. 

"Be sure," he said. 

"Yes sir!" It didn't take long. The facial recognition at Crossroads Casino was, Crowley knew intimately, better than Homeland Security's. 

In a moment, his head of security nodded and looked up from the screen. "It's him. Winchester." 

"Fine. Let the floor staff know." He let one side of his lip curl up in a smirk. This time it would be the General of Hell owing _him_ a favor. Just then Winchester turned and Crowley got a good look at Winchester's companion. The shock of almost-recognition hit like lightning, magnitudes more intense than mere déjà-vu. Crowley froze, and then leaned forward, maintaining outward calm. 

"Who's the boy?" he asked, lazily throwing out the question as though it were of no import. 

The surrounding sycophants burst into movement, mostly for show, Crowley thought, though one of them finally came forward with what he'd asked for. 

"The oldest son, Dean Winchester. Hardly a boy though. . ." 

"Get a few centuries in and they're all pathetic mewling children." Crowley gave a dismissive wave. His gaze was fixed on Winchester's son. Dean. The name meant nothing, but he had a strong feeling he should know him. He narrowed his eye and looked closer. His lips thinned and his eyes flashed red in anger. Azazel. 

"What the bloody hell did you do?" he roared, and the sudden shift in mood sent everyone around him scurrying away. 

"Sir?" ventured the head of the security team, taking a couple steps forward to his previous position. 

"Not you!" Crowley spat out, and he then returned to stare at the screen. "Messing around with the timeline again. Bloody fool," Crowley muttered and the people around him looked askance at each other, waiting to see which way the sword would fall. 

"Well?" Crowley roared. "What do you know about him?" 

More sideways glances. "John Winchester is a mechanic—" 

"No! The boy." The seconds it took to bring him the information he had requested was nearly fatal to the handful of demons still in the room. 

"Works with his father," one of them finally said. "Mechanic too. Parents divorced. Has a younger sibling living with the mother who's been accepted on scholarship to Stanford. The—" 

"Hmmm." Crowley fiddled with a casino chip as he mulled over his strategy. On the screen, the senior Winchester was handing his keys to the valet. 

"Sir?" the demon asked, poised on the edge of continuing. 

"You." Crowley pointed to one of the newer demons who had been elevated to serve him. A pair of crystal clear blue eyes turned towards him, staring out from a dirty face and surrounded by an unkempt mane of greasy hair. He grimaced in distaste. Learning to maintain the meat-suits wasn't second nature to everyone at first. "Cancel the scholarship of Winchester's youngest." 

"Why?" 

Everyone froze, shocked at the sheer stupidity, and Crowley fixed the underling with a slow unblinking stare. The blue eyes went wide as the demon realized his mistake. Crowley ignored the babbling apology, and returned his gaze to the screen. With a casual finger motion, he sent a pencil darting straight into the demon's eye. It didn't kill the fool, but make for a pleasant few moments of complete silence, broken only by the occasional whimper of someone not quite foolish enough to scream in pain when his boss wished to concentrate. 

"Sir, it's done." Crowley didn't bother looking to see which of the sycophants had spoken. 

"Let's see what that does to dear old Daddy," he muttered to himself.

***

A few moments later, Dean reached for his phone, and Crowley allowed himself a small smile. Interesting that the call went to the brother and not the father. He could use that. . . He watched Dean walk off to one side with his phone as John waited to exchange his pitiful amount of money for chips. Crowley leaned closer to the screen. Dean Winchester stared out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that covered the front of the building. 

"Get closer. You. Show me another angle. And where's the sound? Get me the bloody sound." He ignored the scrambling behind him as the demons rushed to obey. 

What the hell could he and Dean have been to each other? That the timeline had been altered was irrefutable: the signs of faded destiny were obvious to any partially-competent demon. Most people went through the world making choices that left little ripples, but certain people, like Dean and John Winchester apparently, left massive wakes as they moved through life. As a failsafe, these people got saddled with destinies, to ensure their choices didn't accidentally destroy the world. If someone had enough clout—and was either stupid or had an ego the size of a small sun—they could do back and make changes. But it left a mark, and major players in each other's lives could usually recognize the trace of an erased destiny. 

Crowley seethed as he uselessly racked his brain for some memory of Dean Winchester. He felt the connection, but as friends . . . enemies? In this removed timeline, those phantom leg feelings could indicate either. Crowley tapped his fingers in a repetitive staccato against the arm of his chair. 

"Sound!" he roared, and then lifted his head as he heard Dean's voice flood the room over the noise of the lobby. The eerie familiarity of Dean's voice sent shivers of down his spine again. 

"Mom . . . Mom, I can't," Dean said into his cell. "Dad doesn't have that kind of money. Neither do I . . . but I'll see what I can do." Dean pinched his eyes closed and massaged his temples with his other hand as he listened to the other side of the conversation. He started a bit when alarms and bells began blaring from the open door behind him, a semi-regular occurrence, just enough to dangle hope in front of those excitedly feeding money into the machines. Excited screams could be heard and the level of noise upped a notch. Dean winced and blocked out the noise with a hand to his ear as he continued listening. 

Crowley grimaced at his inability to hear the other side of the conversation. 

"Sorry, Mom, I didn't hear—no, not Vegas. It's just some little— Let it go, okay? . . . Well it's not really your business anymore if he's drinking again, is it?" Dean's mouth fell open and his eyes widened, as though he couldn't quite believe what he'd said. "I didn't mean . . . No. . . . I'm sorry. . . He's just tired. . . Yeah, me too. Tell Sammy . . . no, tell him nothing. Not until I figure it out. I'll find a way." Dean nodded his head as his father walked away from the counter with a tray of colored chips. "Yeah," he said. "Listen, gotta go. . . Love you." 

"That Mary?" The voice was deeper than Dean's. Crowley studied John, who stared at Dean's phone with an amusing hunger. A one-sided divorce, it seemed. He could use that, too. 

"Gotta go, Mom." 

"Tell her—" John began, but Dean ended the call. Dean shuffled his feet and John looked away. Oh yes, the elder Winchester was his. 

"Okay, listen up," Crowley said, tearing his eyes away from Dean. "That's the soul we need. Him." A finger tapped John Winchester's face with determination leaving a smudge fingerprint on the screen. "Favor for someone. Tell the dealers to let him win. If he cheats, let him. Subtly. And then invite him to the special table out back." Crowley's finger withdrew and he leaned forward without a wrinkle in his pristine black suit. 

He steepled his fingers and smiled. "Make sure he gets to my private game."

***

From the corner of the room, Crowley watched as John Winchester gathered his winnings with a boisterous laugh. His bets were still too small, too conservative. Crowley signaled to the server who walked up the table, and offered Winchester another complimentary drink. Not yet, Crowley thought, but soon. 

He didn't see the son around, and he scanned the area until he found him sitting alone at the bar. The scene drew him forward, and he began walking towards Dean. Barely remembering to flash his winning smile, Crowley walked the floor, adroitly avoiding eye contact with the people playing the slots, and glad-handing the habitual high-rollers he encountered in a cursory fashion. He made his way to the bar attached to the side of the gambling floor, sidestepping a server with a tray of drinks. 

Dean stared at the game on the television above the bar, but Crowley would wager his next ten souls that the young man had no idea what was on. He was thinking, Crowley was certain, about his little brother's money problems. 

"Texas winning?" he asked as he sat down and the bartender hurried to bring him a scotch, neat. 

"Huh?" Dean said, and seemed surprised to find anyone beside him. 

"The game. Who's winning?" 

"Dunno," Dean said with a shrug. Then he looked at his empty glass and, with a short motion, waved for another. 

"My treat," Crowley said when Dean was handed his drink. "You look like you've had a rough day." He became the focus of green eyes as Dean raised his glass with a nod. The light of the bar cast interesting shadows on Dean's face, accentuating the stunning features, and it held Crowley's attention. When Dean lowered his head he sported a knowing smile. 

Without breaking eye contact, Crowley extended his hand. "Crowley." 

"Dean." The static shock that zinged between their hands startled Dean and made Crowley lean forward a fraction more. 

"What's with the long face?" Crowley asked. "You lose?" 

"Nah. Not playing. Here with someone else." 

There were a number of ways to play this, Crowley thought. 

"Ah." He nodded. "Wife or girlfriend?" 

Dean laughed. "Neither." The intense green eyes held his again, with a slight widening. Interesting. 

Crowley raised his glass and lifted an eyebrow. Dean's smile grew larger, and as their glasses clinked together, Crowley let his fingers brush the other man's. Neither said anything more as they each took a drink, and eventually their eyes drifted back to the television—football, maybe baseball. Crowley wasn't paying it any attention, nor, he thought, was Dean. The feeling that he was somehow tied Dean had increased, as if hanging around at a bar with this stranger should be familiar. Dean shifted and his thigh touch Crowley's. He knew an invitation when he felt one. As Crowley opened his mouth to make a suggestion, he was interrupted by John Winchester. 

"Hey Dean." John slapped Dean on the back. Crowley's eyes narrowed as he watched Dean's reaction to his father's arrival. Dean's leg jumped away from Crowley's and Dean blushed. "Man, I'm cleaning up in there," John continued, "and . . . Who's your friend?" 

"No one." Dean had turned towards his father, cutting off further conversation with Crowley. 

"Excuse me," Crowley said, as he slid from the stool. Dean raised his hand in a dismissive wave and his eyes showed a brief flash of regret before it was quickly masked. Dean didn't look at him again as he walked out onto the floor, but Crowley heard him loudly flirt with a passing waitress, and his father's subsequent ribbing as he was shot down. 

"Sir?" The head of security stood up straighter as Crowley approached. 

"Is everything ready for Winchester?" Crowley asked. 

"Yes, sir. Do we let the younger one in, too?" 

He furrowed his brow as he contemplated Dean, who had his shoulders thrown back with an elbow on the table, taking up more than his share of space as he talked to his father who still stood by his side. Given the pull he felt towards the man, Dean must have been important somehow, but thanks to someone—and Azazel was the only one brazen enough to try that sort of foolishness— Dean was now a nobody. He pondered his lack of reaction to John. He must never have interacted with the man in the timeline that never would be. 

"Let the boy come too." Nobody or not, the link between them was still there, like a child's poorly erased pencil scribbling: a bit faded, overwritten, but still clearly visible. 

Potential, so much wasted potential, Crowley could almost smell it on them. These two, who might have been intended to change the world, ended up . . . what? Changing car tires? And the tragedy was, they knew. Maybe only subconsciously, Crowley allowed, but they knew. He could read it, sharp as a new tattoo: an undefined loss, the confusion of someone made to shake the world on a large scale but who had never received his call to adventure. Passion, strength . . . but twisted and turning inward without the destined outlet. It left a mark, like a great big "declined" stamp on their soul. 

He watched his servers hand John another drink. 

Crowley nodded to himself. Later tonight, or maybe tomorrow, he would offer John Winchester the standard ten-year contract, but Hell would see the man much, much sooner, without him having to exert any effort at all. Lost souls were an excellent return on investment. 

***

"Well played, sir!" 

John Winchester looked up from the table and raised an eyebrow. Crowley waited in the shadows, observing. 

"You have been invited, sir, by the owner of this establishment to a private, VIP game in the back." 

John Winchester smiled, and then drained the rest of his drink before he gathered up his winnings. "Lead the way." He waved over to Dean, who stood in the lobby, once again on his cell. Dean threw up a quick hand to signal that he saw and would just be another minute. John nodded and followed the server into the private room out back. 

Dean caught up to them as they reached a door guarded by two security people who immediately stepped aside to let him pass, whispering all the while into their earpiece microphone. 

The room's low lighting gave it a much more intimate feel than brightness of the main floor. In the center of the room a handful of player sat round an octagonal table. As John stepped forward into the room, Dean's hand reached out to snag his arm. It jostled the new drink he held, and John gave his son and irritated. "What is it?" 

"Dad, we gotta go." 

John blinked at him then smiled reassuringly at his son. "Not now, Dean. Did you see me back there? I'm on a roll." 

"Great. Cash out; time to go. " 

"What's got into you tonight?" John whispered, leaning in close. 

"Dad, Sam's scholarship application just fell through." Dean shuffled his feet. "We need a plan to come up with the tuition. First payment to reserve his spot is due next month. I'm pretty sure I can get a loan to cover part of it, and grandpa mentioned a couple weeks ago that he had some kind of work I could help him with—" 

"When did you talk to . . ? No, Campbell can keep his money! I'll figure out something." 

"Okay." Even Crowley could hear the relief in Dean's voice. A man he might be, but he was his father's son. 

John noticed as well, and one side of his mouth quirked into a sad smile. "I love Sammy, even if he's still not talking to me. And Dean, I don't blame him for choosing to stay with your mom." Dean returned the smile. But it faded as John drained his tumbler and signaled the server for another. 

"Let's go, Dad," Dean said. 

"A bit longer, okay?" Despite the phrasing, it wasn't a question. "Dean, I've got this. I've been invited to the high rollers table. The big shots won't know what hit 'em. Don't worry: Sam will go to Stanford. I'll take care of everything." And John stepped into the room.

***

Crowley managed to catch Dean's gaze as he picked up his cards, but Dean quickly looked away and did not meet his eyes the rest of the evening. Still, Crowley found Dean's presence distracting. Between each hand, Dean whispered in his father's ear, trying to convince him to leave the table. In any other circumstance Crowley would have ejected him from the room, but Crowley was strangely reluctant for him to leave. Crowley watched Dean become more uncomfortable as John put away glass after glass, and the bets increased with each refill. 

"Dad—" 

"Not yet," John said. "There's not enough here yet." No human could have picked up their hushed conversation, but it was as clear as day to everyone else in the room. 

"Why don't we—" Dean tried again. 

"For Sammy." John's words effectively shut down Dean's objections. 

Crowley rested his chin on his steepled fingers as he contemplated the pair. Time to separate them and move this along faster. With the faintest whisper, unnoticed by either human, Crowley sent one of his lackeys on an errand. 

A few minutes later, everyone paused as announcement came from the sound system. " _Could the owner of a black Chevy Impala please contact the front desk? License plate . . ._ " The announcer had the attention of both Winchesters. Crowley smiled but it was the slightest tightening of his lips, and neither man was any the wiser. John glanced around the table. He turned an apologetic glance at his son. 

"Dean—" 

But Dean was already pushing back his seat. "I'll go." Dean hesitated as he took a step towards the door, and Crowley wondered whether the boy was gifted with premonitions. "Dad. . ." 

John set his tumbler on the table and without a word the server filled it up again, despite an obvious gesture from Dean that he should be cut off. 

"Last hand," John assured him as he picked up the newly dealt cards. 

" _Could the owner of a black . . ._ " 

Dean cursed as he hurried from the room, and the heavy wooden door, glittering with gold inlaid in an "X" pattern, closed behind him with finality.

***

"Sorry," Crowley's voice, though soft, reached every corner of the room with false sympathy, "but you don't have enough to stay in." His demons appeared to have successfully distracted Dean since he still had not returned. In the last few minutes Crowley had made his move: a whisper here, an offhand comment there, as John Winchester tried to reclaim his winning streak. 

He narrowed his brows, and the King of the Crossroads studied Winchester's face. The man didn't have any blatant tells, but—for someone like Crowley—they were there: changes in heart rate, increased sweating, and the smallest tightening if muscles. John believed he could win, and the pot was large enough to take care of his son's education and any debts, but without enough to match the current bet, he would need to leave, and leave all his money on the table. He'd walk away with nothing: another broken promise, a failure yet again. 

Crowley allowed himself a half-smile, and while the other demons made asinine comments about each other's sexual exploits, he jiggled the hook. "Well, I guess I would consider something in trade. . . if there's anything of equal value. . ." 

***

The younger Winchester was the focus of attention—and numerous snickers—when he walked back into the room. Dean froze under the demonic scrutiny. Crowley felt his own satisfied, predatory grin wrinkle his favorite meat-suit. Dean took a step back, and then he noticed his father's bloody face. 

The boy had picked a bad time to leave the room, Crowley thought, watching with amusement as Dean rushed to kneel by his father, who sat on the ground, looking dazed and staring up at the mostly empty card table. Crowley whistled a little tune. The music seemed out of place in the room, and it made John's shoulders slump further. Crowley's grin widened. Dean's eyes narrowed. 

"So," Crowley said. "I think there are a few things you need to discuss with your son." Winchester blinked at him, as if still unable to process what had happened. The server moved to top the man's drink, but Crowley gave a miniscule shake of his head and the man retreated. 

Winchester spoke, angry and incredulous in equal measure. "You can't be serious! That was . . . you were joking. That's not . . .no!" 

"Trying to weasel out of your bet? Don't. You won't like the result." John's red face—whether from the anger or the alcohol, Crowley didn't know—darkened further. 

"Dad?" Dean asked. Crowley took pleasure in his confusion. 

"The house always wins," Crowley said, as Dean approached his father. 

"I. . . I don't know how it happened." John's words were slurred, a combination of the bloody swelling nose, the towel on his face, and the empty bottles and glasses that had accumulated around him over the course of the evening. 

"What happened?" Dean demanded, not dropping his fighting stance. He had the right instincts, Crowley thought, and with a bit of training, he might actually be dangerous. 

Crowley shrugged and said, unruffled. "I don't think your father intended to lose. Took a swipe at me. And," Crowley spoke sternly to John, "I don't take accusations of cheating lightly." 

Dean took in the table, his father's lack of chips, the large pile in front of Crowley's seat. A napkin, scrawled with his father's writing, lay on top of the pile. Dean strode forward, and snatched up the napkin. 

"They weren't serious, it was a joke," John mumbled as Dean scrutinized the ill-advised contract. "Everyone was joking around, saying shit. . . Wasn't serious." He turned pleading eyes to his son. "Was just stupid talk," he repeated, and then he blinked and let his head fall onto the table. Crowley was impressed the man had still been able to string words together. It had been a pretty hard blow, on top of the alcohol. 

"What is this," Dean demanded, as he squinted at Crowley's tiny pen-scratch handwriting, blurred in part by the smear of John's bloody fingerprint. 

"That," Crowley said, "is a contract giving me the virginity of John's oldest child. That's you." 

Dean's breath caught, his eyes widened and he threw an incredulous look at his father, who had now passed out on the table. Then he burst out laughing. 

Dean's laugh lit up his face and Crowley couldn't take his eyes away. Shaking his head, Dean said, "That ship sailed long ago. You've been had." 

"Oh the having hasn't happened yet." Crowley said. From the corner of his eye he caught the discreet signal of one of his people. As much as he might want to explore further his strange fascination with the young human, he had work to do. "Your father said much the same thing. Fortunately, 'virginity' is rather loosely defined." He let his eyes flash red, and was pleased with the boy's wide-eyed response. "And I can certainly work with what's been offered up." 

Dean paled. 

"My dad wouldn't do something like that. . . 

"Well, in his defense, Daddy dearest believed our locker room conversation to be in jest. But, as you can see . . . not so much." 

Crowley remembered the unexpected flutter in his gut as John Winchester, stressed, looking for a way out of his predicament, and having listened to the explicit ribaldry that passed as demonic humor, threw out, as part of an angry tirade. "My car is worth twice that! What the hell is it you want? My kid's virginity?" Crowley had never been one to pass up an unforeseen opportunity. 

"He thought," Crowley told Dean, without any hint of amusement, "that I was not serious when I wrote out the contract." John had, in fact, called them all perverts, with a nervous laugh that indicated that he couldn't quite believe that they were stretching a joke so far beyond its natural ending. But Crowley had wrapped him in words: of his failure to provide for Sam, of his failure as a husband, of his failure in general. "I accepted the car as collateral provided he sign this trifling little paper." Crowley held it up, between his thumb and forefinger, and gave it a little shake for emphasis. 

"It's not legal! It's a fucking napkin! And there are laws." Dean's voice had risen as he became angrier. "It—" 

"Maybe," Crowley's voice rose over Dean's, powerful and holding the promise of violence, "like you, he figured it wasn't binding. But he— _like you_ —is wrong. On all counts. It's binding in a way that your laws aren't. And, drunk or not, _serious_ or not, he signed it. In blood." Crowley waved the napkin again, bringing Dean's attention to the smudged thumbprint that he might initially have mistaken for ketchup. 

Dean just shook his head, bereft of words for what must be, to him, a conversation bordering on insane. Finally he tried again. "I'm an adult. My dad has no say over what I do! It means nothing," he said and Dean strode forward and pulled it from Crowley's hand. Crowley let him and simply nodded as he continued. "It's a napkin! I can just rip up the fucking thing." 

"Yes, you can. Might want to give John here last rites first though—if you're particular about those sorts of things." 

"Huh?" 

Crowley snapped his fingers and the napkin was in his hand once more. Dean's eyes were comically wide. Good. Time the boy got a clue. He held the napkin before him and began the smallest of tears, looking pointedly at Dean the whole time. 

John screamed. 

Passed out, drunk, yet still he screamed as though someone was pulling his insides out—and Crowley was in a unique position to know exactly what that sounded like. 

"Stop!" Dean yelled and ran to his father. 

"The laws I work within are much _much_ older than yours. So. Now that we've established that this is, indeed, a binding contract, you have a choice. You are correct that he didn't, according to your little laws, have the right or ability to sign you away. In that case, I should just rip this up right now." With dramatic flair, Crowley made as if to do so. 

"No!" Dean's panicked shout echoed in the room. 

It really was too easy. But still so much fun. 

"Very well. Here is how this will work. You are mine, bound, until I have claimed that pesky virginity of yours. But believe it or not, I'm actually not that interested in you." Crowley said, casually throwing in that last bit, and Dean appeared to believe the lie. "John and I need to negotiate something much more valuable than a night of pleasure." That part, at least, was true. "Come with me, relax, have some food, take advantage of my hospitality. Give Daddy a chance to recover and be ready to talk." Crowley motioned for the guards to take the Dean away. 

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Dean said, but he sounded much less sure. 

"Yes," Crowley waved his hand and the table, chips, and cards vanished, "you are." He nodded to his henchmen and they flanked Dean, seizing an elbow and shoulder. Dean winced and Crowley growled. "Don't hurt him." He looked down to Winchester, who mumbled something incoherent. "Don't worry, John," Crowley said with a turn as he began a leisurely stroll out of the room. "I'll take good care of my prize." 

"You can't do this!" Dean yelled as he fought to get away. Dean's untrained strength was no match for his demonic escort's. 

Crowley had been patient. "Wake the fuck up, Toto! You're not in fucking Kansas anymore!" He stormed out and didn't bother to see who followed him. 

***

Crowley watched from a hidden alcove as Dean was led to an empty room to wait. The younger Winchester still fought the security guards, and they seemed pleased to propel him into the room and slam the door closed. After uselessly yelling after them, uttering all sorts of threats, and breaking a vase or two by throwing it against the barred door, Dean had looked around. His reaction had been priceless. As Crowley watched, Dean's eyes had flicked from one carving to another, searching for safety where there was none. The room had been designed in such a way at there was no way to escape the onslaught of images. 

Crowley no longer noticed the artwork, a project undertaken by a condemned soul trying to win favor, but he enjoyed watching others' reactions. Numerous bas-relief carvings accentuated the room, which was otherwise decorated floor to ceiling with intricately detailed paintings. Each unclothed figure, either demon, human, or fantastical hybrid, wore a look of exquisite pleasure or unbearable pain—often hard to differentiate—and they writhed and danced in the flicker of the ensconced torches. 

Most scenes were bloody and few depicted anything consensual. It was, after all, an antechamber in Hell. Demons, in demon form, featured predominantly, and multiple demon orgies, horrific in their violence, decorated much of the wall. 

Various instruments of torture had been painted throughout, but Crowley had always thought the artist's penchant towards crosses to be a tad gaudy. Still, the variety of uses they were put to was inspired. And the bodies. . .twisted, bent over into positions improbable for the human body . . . exquisite. 

There were small pockets of relative calm, such as the woman in the topmost corner who had thrown her head back, mid-orgasm, as she was doubly penetrated by a demon's bifurcate cock. Crowley assumed that its sharp bony prominence hadn't erupted yet to ensure conception. The experience was rarely survivable. 

While the interactions showcased an infinite variety of demonic prowess, there were few human/human interactions. Crowley spotted a pair of humans, male and female, fucking against the wall, reveling in the blood spatter and entrails around them, and on the opposite wall an apparently consensual human male foursome cavorted under a table over which a demon gang-bang was depicted in full swing. Throughout the room, multitudes of objects stuck out of every conceivable orifice, in a way that had been fatal each time Crowley had tried. 

Dean's eyes darted from one scene to the other in horror. Crowley barely contained his amusement when, in an attempt to find a safe place to look, Dean fixed his gaze to the floor only to find himself stepping on a naked demon whose forked tongue lapped at a human erection while said human's mouth had been stuffed with two demon cocks, as another human took him from behind. As Dean hopped back, he realized the entire floor depicted an orgy in fine marble mosaic. 

Crowley could have so much fun—if he weren't being a goddamned gentleman to secure Azazel his pet human soul. Crowley's eyes narrowed as he cast his thoughts to the other demon. He didn't know what sort of play the General of Hell was running, and the lack of knowledge was potentially dangerous. A coup in Hell was not unheard of, especially with Lucifer locked away. But Crowley had looked into Winchester's background and thought the man unremarkable. Azazel's insistance on securing the man's death and his soul in particular seemed odd, and Crowley wondered what role the man had played before Azazel had altered things. 

Crowley closed his fist around the hidden door's unique handle, an erect bronze penis. With a twist, the door swung open, and he exited the room, but he still could feel the intangible link between him and Dean. 

***

Crowley left Dean alone for hours. He had other business that needed attention but, as he listened to inane petitions from various lesser crossroads demons asking for a variety of contract adjustments, he couldn't concentrate on the task. The boy had shaken his calm—from his first step into the casino. 

"Sir?" 

"What?" Crowley said in annoyance. 

The demon before him, who held open a standard contract scroll, with several hastily inked adjustments, opened his mouth slowly and shifted his eyes around to gauge others's reactions. "Uh . . . is that acceptable, sir?" Crowley realized that he had no recollection of topic. He narrowed his eyes and the demon gulped. 

"Dismissed. All of you." He tapped his fingers as the room drained of people. "Wait," he said to the last demon, who cringed as he turned. "Send me Rodney." The demon bowed his assent and left as quickly as he could without running. 

Unlike the technology employed in the earth-bound Crossroads Casino, in the heart of his demesne computers and all other electronics devices were nothing more than ugly paperweights. Useless. They simply refused to work. At Crowley's unvoiced request, a servant efficiently appeared and dragged with him a human prisoner. With a practiced slice of the human's throat, the servant gathered blood in a clay bowl, granting the man a much quicker death that he would have otherwise received. When the blood lapped the edges of the bowl, Crowley took it and muttered a couple words. The surface went flat, mirror-like, before resolving into an image of Dean pacing the antechamber where he waited. 

The anger seemed to have drained from Dean in the last few hours. As he studied the young man, Crowley fingered the folded napkin that was stained with John Winchester's blood. 

"Sir, you asked to see me?" 

Crowley glanced at the demon who had entered and now stood at attention before him, and then he returned to watching Dean. What was his fascination with this blasted human? 

"Yes," he said. "Rodney. You did well running interference with the younger Winchester when he went to check on his car." 

"Thank you, sir." Rodney's meat suit, a young woman in a form-fitting blue sequined dress, shifted on its high heels. 

"I _had_ been expecting it to take longer. Report," Crowley ordered. 

Rodney shrugged the woman's shoulders. "Nothing much to say." Crowley's eyes narrowed and Rodney continued. "He wasn't interested. He said the right things, flirted, put on a show. But," its head shook, "it was all talk. Never went further than that. He . . . wasn't interested in me, in that way." From Rodney's tone, it was clear the demon was annoyed. 

Crowley thought back to his interaction with Dean and nodded. He hadn't misread the boy. 

"No? You must not be his type," Crowley said with an arched eyebrow and was rewarded by the demon's bristle. 

"With all due respect, sir. I am everyone's type." Rodney readjusted his meat suit's bra strap that had slid. He hesitated. "I heard the other girls tried earlier, when he was on the floor. Same thing." 

"Hmm. The boy's not a virgin, though. Not completely," Crowley muttered to himself. It was loud enough for Rodney to hear. 

"Clearly," Rodney said. "It should have worked. My people are the best." A statement, not a boast. 

"Did you try the male meat suits?" 

"The. . ." Rodney blinked. "Oh. No, sir. We were understaffed tonight because of the oil exec party so . . ." 

Crowley sat up straighter and smiled. He watched Dean again, who still stared at the bas-relief on the walls. Interest. Curiosity. A trace of desire. That was the look—the one he'd glimpsed once, quickly hidden in John Winchester's presence. 

It was too bad Crowley had no intention of claiming what he had won in the card game. With a small sigh of regret, Crowley tucked the napkin into his breast pocket. Regardless of the link he felt with Dean, the young man wasn't worth derailing the complex machinations involved in securing his political advancement. Azazel needed a favor. Crowley smiled. 

***

His entrance into the small alcove of the antechamber went unnoticed by the room's only occupant, until Crowley walked towards one of the padded chairs in the middle of the room. The standing sculptures that had decorated the room lay shattered, and with each footstep the crunch and scraping of broken stone on marble resounded. Dean spun around at the sound. 

"I see you had a problem with Priapus and his donkey," Crowley said, as he sat. "Granted, I believe the sculptor took some liberties in his interpretation of 'killed it with his phallus,' but," he snapped his fingers and the life-sized sculpture was once again whole, "it hardly deserved that sort of treatment." Dean's pale face and the white of his eyes truly enhanced the green of his irises, Crowley thought, even with the dark bags of exhaustion. Pretty. 

"Other than my taste in sculpture, how do you like the decor?" Crowley asked and he watched Dean's reactions with raptorial focus. And there it was: the slightest quiver of a lip, the widening and shifting of the eyes. Dean's eyes darted to the panel he had been staring at when Crowley entered. Crowley remembered the warmth of Dean's thigh against his. It was a shame to set this one free. 

The green eyes narrowed. "Let me go!" Dean's nostrils flared as he shouted. Crowley regarded him calmly. 

"Of course," he said. "It shouldn't be long." Crowley fell silent and tapped his fingers in a loud, slow rhythm as he waited for the inevitable question. 

"What are you waiting for," Dean asked, glaring at Crowley's hand, which had not paused in its tapping. 

"We are waiting on John Winchester. Your father." Crowley pointed to a chair. "Please sit." The words had the force of a command, and Dean had dropped to a sitting position before he realized what had happened. Crowley didn't wait for the boy to regain his composure before he continued, in a more friendly tone. "So, Dean, here's how this is going to go. You're going to sit here, eat, drink, admire the view, and as soon as Daddy wakes from his beauty sleep, he's going to trade his soul for his loving son's virtue and you can both go home. Win-win. I get what I want, you can remain a blushing virgin for the rest of your life—" 

"I'm not a virgin!" Dean yelled, but Crowley ignored the interruption. 

"—and Daddy learns a valuable lesson about drinking and gambling. Who knows, it might be the shock he needs to get himself together and make it the whole ten years. Think of it like my version of an addiction program, with all the steps condensed into one." 

"Souls and crap . . . " Dean shook his head. "Stop fucking with me and tell me what the hell is going on!" 

"Lovely turns of phrase. Fucking with you. Hell. Yes, that is what this is about." He paused without taking his eyes off Dean, before he continued. "Remember this?" Crowley waved the napkin. "It means that fucking you is the game of the hour." His voice deepened and whispered in Dean's ears from all directions, even though Crowley still stood several paces away. "You could let it all go, Dean. All the crap, the expectations. Forget about how you got here; think of it as an opportunity to discover yourself, for the first time. You can always put your tighty-whiteys back on later, and go back to being Daddy's favorite son. Pretend it's just you and me back at the bar. Let me," he stepped forward to where Dean stood, stock-still, and leaned forward to brush his lips along the shell of Dean's ear, "show you what you've been missing." 

Crowley backed away and took in Dean's pale face and his silence. Then he gave a dismissive half-laugh and the mood shattered. "But you're in luck. I don't care one way or the other for unwilling virgins. I have better things to do. I can snap my fingers and have an endless number of individuals vying for the privilege of getting me off, in any way that I choose. You?" Crowley rolled his eyes. "Not worth my time." 

"But. . . My dad?" 

"Is." 

Crowley watched a myriad of little tells twitch across Dean's face as he re-evaluated his situation. 

"What do you want?" 

Crowley arched an eyebrow and deliberately looked around at the erotic displays. He grinned at Dean. "Well, since you asked—" 

"What do you want with my Dad?" Dean hurried to clarify. But he couldn't stop his eyes from following Crowley's. He reddened. "And what does 'trade his soul' mean?" 

"Pretty much exactly what it sounds like. _I_ am not interested in John Winchester, but someone else—a powerful someone else—wants his soul. Apparently it's been hard to acquire in the past." He looked up and shrugged. "Can't imagine why," he muttered. "Lazy gits." 

"Why?" 

Crowley shrugged. "Eternal torment, that sort of thing, I suppose." 

"Torture?" 

"Assuredly. This _is_ Hell." 

"No." Dean seemed sure of himself again. "He's not going to make trade for me. I won't let him." 

Crowley laughed. "I don't especially care what you want. You are here as leverage because, in some world that doesn't exist, he pissed off someone important. So relax, have some whiskey. I'm told it's your favorite. You'll be back with Daddy in no time." He gestured and a bottle with glasses appeared on the small table between them. This," Crowley said, "is my little slice of Hell. And within its borders, I am a god. Is there anything else I can do to make your stay more. . . enjoyable." His eyes crinkled as Dean's eyes unintentionally flicked one to the murals. "Oh, that I could arrange. Easily." 

Dean's mouth set into a thin line. With a smirk, Crowley made the room come alive. 

"A boudoir, just for you," Crowley said. The painted demon in the panel Dean had been looking at began thrusting with abandon. Dean's eyes flickered about, comically wide. Good, Crowley thought, may as well give the kid an education while he was here. Crowley didn't bother to hide his smile when he saw evidence of burgeoning desire. Hardly surprising: Dean was a healthy young human, after all. 

"Now if you don't mind," he continued, "I do have work to do. You won't be able to leave. Can't have you wandering around Hell, now can we? There are appetizers on the table—of the food variety—and books to read if you get bored. They're all very enlightening . . . you'll enjoy them. Back in—" 

"Wait! I refused the trade," Dean said. Crowley paused in surprise at the interruption. Dean squared his shoulders and faced him. "I mean it. Don't take Dad's soul. I accept. I agree to the contract, willingly." Dean forged on with only the slightest tremble in his voice. "You fuck me and Dad keeps his soul. Come on, let's go." With an abrupt nod, as if to psych himself up, Dean pulled off his shirt and threw it to the ground, then fixed his eyes on Crowley as if in challenge. Crowley surprised himself with a genuine smile at the defiance. He could feel it in the crinkle at the corners of his meat suit's eyes, as they traced the contours of Dean's chest. 

"You do realize that I am, in fact, a demon?" Crowley said. Dean's eyes darted to the mural once again, where a true-form demon had now split its human by alternating thrusts with its cock and thrusts with its barbed tail. Now that he looking more closely, Crowley decided to commend the artist—languishing somewhere on the fifth or sixth level of Hell—for his choice of vivid red. It attracted the eye and made the images stand out sharply. 

"Yes." Dean's answer has started with a bit of a tremor, but finished clear, and the young man's stance never wavered. 

"Hmmm. Well," Crowley had turned fully around by then and leaned back against the wall, studying Dean, "then I am truly sorry that I cannot accept. 

"No! But—" 

"I made a promise to a colleague. And I _always_ keep my promises." The door closed behind him with a clang and cut off Dean's objection. 

"Sir?" a demon guard asked. 

"Give him whatever he wants, within reason, but he doesn't leave the room," Crowley said.

***

"Where is my son, you piece of shit?" John Winchester shouted as soon as Crowley entered his hotel room, before even the smoke of his appearance had dissipated. 

"Ah, yes, I see where he gets the lovely manners," Crowley muttered, and continued in a normal voice. "Hello, John. May I call you John? Your son is in the process of being . . . educated." 

The man knew a fair number of expletives, though his vocabulary initially appeared larger because of the repetition and the volume. Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

"He does, technically, retain his virginal qualities. It's so much more fun to tease these things out," he mused aloud, watching John from the corner of his eye. "Use some finesse . . . Plus the anticipation—" 

"Leave him alone!" 

"Whether he remains. . . unsullied . . . is entirely up to you." 

Winchester sat back, still fuming, and listened. 

"Good. Here is the deal—" 

"Sir?" 

The interruption brought a flare of red to his eyes. He held his anger, barely, and glared at the demon who'd barged into the room. 

"What?" Crowley said, through gritted teeth. 

"There's been an incident." 

***

"Report," Crowley said. 

He'd left Winchester to one of his closers and now sat in his throne room. There was a time the demon before him would have been immediately flayed, but he had learned over time that when underlings did something so sure to get them killed it was prudent to listen to the reasons before acting. Magnanimous gestures, such as occasionally leaving the messenger alive, were among the reasons he now sat as King of the crossroads demons instead of a peon, despite being younger than many here. Time served did not grant seniority in hell, only ability did that. Hell was, he reflected, one of the most equitable places in the universe. 

"Azazel," the demon said, "busted up our smuggling ring in Vancouver." 

"What!" Crowley roared. 

"He came and we were overrun. He . . ." 

Just then, the demon underling handling John Winchester's contract appeared in a cloud of smoke. "Winchester caved," it told him. "Already sealed with a kiss and everything." It slowed its flow of words as it took in the tense atmosphere in the room. "Standard ten year . . . " It trailed off. Without a word, Crowley ignored him to turn back to the messenger and nodded for him to continue. 

"He took away two key people and the others scattered. He said something about how they were his special kids." 

Crowley's nostrils flared and his eyes burned. "Call Azazel." His voice, deep and rumbling, rattled the wall. "Get him for me. Now." 

Soon a chalice of blood bubbled and swirled as Crowley yelled into it. He saw Azazel's eyes flash a bright yellow and knew his own were pulsing red—it added a slightly rosy tint to lighter colors. "No, I don't have Winchester's soul yet! And I'm not going out of my way to get the damned thing! The next time you ask me for a favor," Crowley yelled into the bowl, "don't piss in my pool!" 

With an angry swipe of his hands, the bowl went flying. Blood sprayed everywhere when it broke against the hard ground. He looked over to the demon who had secured John Winchester's contract. 

"Where is it? Winchester's deal. The terms—let me see them," Crowley demanded, and the wide-eyed demon wordlessly handed it over. As his underling had said, it was standard: ten years, one soul, Dean Winchester freed and untouched. He rolled it up and slipped it into his jacket's inner pocket. "You never saw this," he said. The underling nodded and, at Crowley's dismissive wave, it scurried away. 

***

The antechamber door thundered open. 

"I accept," Crowley's voice echoed in the room and Dean jumped up in surprise from where he had been sitting. Crowley strode decisively towards him and slammed the papers he carried on the table. "Your offer: to let Daddy Dearest off the hook. Accepted." Crowley shouldered into Dean's space, pushed him up against the wall. "Your virginity. Mine." And kissed him. 

Startled, Dean pushed back, and Crowley backed away only far enough to look into his eyes. Crowley allowed him a moment to let his words sink in, and then he raised a single brow in inquiry. Dean's initial resistance crumpled as he caught up with the situation and his minute nod was all Crowley required. As Crowley closed the distance once more, to seal it properly this time, Dean yelled suddenly, "Sam!" 

Crowley stopped and Dean hurried to continue. "Sam goes to Stanford." 

Crowley didn't waste words on something so trivial; he grunted his assent even as he invaded Dean's space once more. This time Dean allowed his mouth to open, and Crowley deepened the kiss. As Dean's lips moved beneath Crowley's, he gave the smallest of moans. Had Winchester not interrupted them at the bar, Crowley thought, he and Dean would have ended up here much sooner. 

Crowley noted the increased heart rate. He was pleasantly surprised to find Dean already half-hard when he lined up their cocks. Dean caught his breath as Crowley thrust and ground against him, and Crowley allowed a trace of his smug smile to show. The extra three inches made an impression, and he always made a point to add the bonus length to every meat suit, no matter the size of its natural attributes—he had, after all, bargained his soul for that trifling extension when he was human. 

"When we're done," Crowley said, with a low rumbling growl into Dean's ear, "you won't have to worry about that pesky virginity. . ." With an overly theatrical snap of his fingers half the torche sconces were smothered by localized thickened air, and the room dimmed. Piles of large pillows popped into existence along the walls, and a four poster bed appeared in the center of the room. Crowley got up into Dean's space and pulled the man to him with a strong hand on his lower back. He ghosted a hand over Dean's chest, and let one trail down to cup his ass while the other pressed against to the growing bulge of Dean's pants. ". . . ever again." 

***

Crowley's cock gave a twitch as Dean swallowed around it before lifting his head so he could breath. Crowley passed his fingers through Dean's short-cropped hair and then tightened his grip and guided Dean down again. While not very experienced, it was certainly not the first blowjob Dean had given; it wouldn't count against the virginity tally, Crowley mused, depending how far he had gone. But maybe . . . 

Crowley pushed Dean backwards onto the piled cushions, following immediately to fill the young man's mouth once more, after twisting around to reciprocate. Without hesitation, Crowley sunk onto Dean's cock, enveloping it in once smooth motion. With Dean's cock butting the back of his throat, he nuzzled into the soft delicate skin at the base of Dean's sac, burying his nose into Dean's warmth and rubbing his face into Dean's balls. Crowley allowed himself a slow chuckle, and let the vibrations caress Dean's cock which twitched as Dean gasped. Crowley used the opening to nudge his own cock further in, letting the flutter of Dean's throat caress it before he withdrew to let the young man breathe. 

He worked his mouth around Dean, tried to elicit another one of those gasps, even as his hands firmly seized the Dean's ass, a cheek in each open palm, and pulled Dean into him, straining to lodge Dean's cock as deep as possible. He allowed the cut-off of his air supply as Dean's dick slipped in a scant inch further. Crowley had little need to breathe, though he kept up the appearance, as did most demons. He swallowed and Dean whimpered. 

Crowley moved his hands from Dean's rounded ass, letting his arms encircle Dean's thighs like a hug. His fingers met at Dean's crack, and followed it like a path to their target. Rumbling his pleasure, Crowley brought one hand to open the warmed lubricant that conveniently lay beside him, slicking his fingers and spreading it around Dean's opening. He distracted Dean with increased movement and friction along his cock, tonguing around the head as he withdraw, and swallowing him down almost violently before slowly withdrawing again. Then he gave a reminding thrust forward, and Dean once again began working Crowley's cock, though it was much more erratic now. 

Both sets of fingers played with Dean's hole, even as Dean's cock remained lodged within Crowley's throat. Pushing prodding, overwhelming Dean with novel sensations, Crowley allowed his fingertips to dip into Dean's opening, not pushing beyond fingertips, even though he could have. When he felt Dean fully relax, the lack of tension in the body beneath him, the taste of Dean's desire, and the knowledge complete capitulation and acceptance of whatever Crowley wished to do, brought a surge of unexpected and sudden need. Crowley gave a series of sharp stuttering thrusts, even as he pushed one lubed index finger inside, followed immediately by the other, before he shot down Dean's throat. 

Crowley held there until he was spent before withdrawing completely. Dean took gasping breaths, once more alone on the cushions, with his legs spayed wide apart and the shine of Crowley's saliva on his erect cock. Crowley stood silently, looking at him. 

In the aftermath of his release, Crowley felt a bone-deep tingling through the contract that currently bound them tighter than their phantom dimensional connection. One down, he thought. The napkin contract had been so wonderfully unspecific about its definitions. 

Dean stared from dazed eyes, then looked down at himself, and took a shaky swallow before asking, with a throat hoarse from use, "Did. . . Am I. . . is that. . ?" 

"Are we done?" Crowley let his smile grow. "Oh no. Not even close." And Dean's eyes drifted to where Crowley's cock jutted out, once more erect and leaking. "Demon. Remember?"

***

"Just do it already." Dean begged, breathless and gasping. 

"No." Crowley withdrew his fingers, withdrew their contact, but left in the speculum. He ignored his own hard cock, and instead focused on the sounding rod that currently stuffed Dean's. Crowley smirked and tapped the rod again. 

"Gngh, fuck," Dean whispered, and his head drooped. 

"Do you really think you're ready?" Crowley asked as he shifted. He wrapped a hand around his cock and jacked himself, taking his time, staring at Dean as he slowly fed Dean his length, pulling out when he gagged. The stimulation bordered on painful, but he maintained control. Hell was, if nothing else a place that trained you to ignore discomfort that wasn't immediately life-threatening. 

"Please. Just do it!" Dean said, when he could speak again. He took hiccuping breaths, pupil's blown wide, eyes half-lidded as Crowley slowly teased out the sound and let it be sucked back in. 

"Oh?" he said, archly. "And what is it you want?" He'd been keeping Dean on edge for what seemed like hours—though time was hard to pinpoint reliably. Dean had answered this before, and Crowley had taken pleasure in twisting those answers in all sorts of fun directions. 

"Just. . . finish it. Take it. I want you inside me." 

Crowley's eyes widened in pleasure. "What a delicious proposition," he said. Invitations usually were for angels. There was that novelty-factor again. And, while it might not have been what the boy meant, there was no chance that he would pass on the offer. He removed the rod, released the speculum, and enjoyed how Dean's stretched hole struggled to close. 

"Turn around," he said, and Dean immediately rolled onto his knees, presenting himself for the taking. 

"You realize that I," Crowley said as he increased the wards on the room , ensuring that not so much as a breath of air could escape or enter the room, "am in no hurry to conclude our particular transaction." 

He would release the containment long before the lack of air adversely affected Dean, but for this he wanted privacy. It would be just like a demon to attack his meat-suit while he was out of it. Demons were predictable like that. 

Crowley knelt behind Dean, felt him tremble either in fear or anticipation, and placed his mouth at his entrance. From Dean's quick inhalation, Crowley knew he had surprised him, and he licked around the rim before teasing his way forward. He slowly pointed his tongue and circled Dean's hole as he let it glide inside. 

Dean squirmed. "Do it. I'm ready." 

Crowley reached forward and ran a finger down Dean's dick, from the leaking head, following the prominent vein, to fondle his balls and continue on, knuckling down his perineum. Then Crowley withdrew his tongue at the same time as he delved four fingers into the channel still loose from their earlier scene. Without hesitation, he aimed straight for the prostate and was rewarded with Dean's yell of pleasure. 

"So you're ready for me? All of me." 

"Yes," Dean whispered. Crowley leaned to the side to see that Dean's eyes were screwed shut and his mouth hung open. Damn, the kid was beautiful. 

"Good." Crowley bent again behind him and opened his mouth wide. A stream of black smoke, thick, almost oily, poured from his mouth and into Dean's opening. Another tendril of smoke slipped underneath, thinned and entered his cock, following the path the sounding rod had blazed and then continuing further in. As Crowley surged into the man, he embraced all his senses. Dean's cry of surprise as he was overwhelmed by sensations was cut off as Crowley's darkness surged into his mouth and nose and silenced his vocal chords. Dean's wide open eyes saw only blackness as Crowley clamped down on the optic nerve. He invaded the ear canal and muffled all sound. Once Dean was cradled and enveloped in darkness, Crowley concentrated on the pleasure centers, the only sensation that he allowed to remain. Crowley felt his own demonic essence continue to enter Dean's slit, a slow, teasing trickle inside. The smoke that entered and exited Dean's anus swirled like a masturbatory, pulsing twister, never damaging, but constantly brushing against his prostate as it moved within him. 

When Crowley felt Dean approaching sensory overload, he spared enough energy to move his meat-suit forward, and felt the incremental, inexorable pressure of his massive cock entering Dean. In a sudden abandonment, Crowley surged out of Dean and took control of his habitual body in time to fiercely thrust forward, forcing Dean face-forward into the mattress arms when his arms collapsed. 

Driving hard, Crowley savored Dean's punched-out little moans. When he paused, intending to draw it out further, Dean's breathless, "More. Don't stop. Please. Goddammit, more!" resounded within him and he pounded back in, thrusting with abandon until Dean came. With a yell, Dean's body went rigid, tightening around the dick that split him. Then he collapsed. Crowley tightened his grip, bruising soft flesh, and pulled Dean's boneless body into his final thrusts. He gritted his teeth as he filled him, shooting deep inside. 

Done, Crowley fell heavily beside Dean, and felt the now familiar tingle that linked them. Dean had fallen into an exhausted slumber, and his hair, wet with sweat, framed his face in a disheveled mat. Crowley settled into the closest approximation he had to sleep, freezing as Dean soon shifted and cuddled in without waking up.

***

Crowley met Dean's gaze as the green eyes blinked away sleep. 

"Hello Dean," Crowley said, but it came out muffled against the flaccid cock that filled his mouth. "I had an idea. And I think you'll like it." Before he had finished speaking, Dean' dick began to fill. Crowley encouraged it as Dean looked down at him with a small sleepy grin. Crowley pulled off with a swirl of his tongue and blanketed Dean's naked body with his own. 

"You see the mural on the far right, in the corner?" Crowley whispered. He waited a moment for Dean to find correct mural among the myriad of fucking demons. Under his hands, he felt Dean's heart rate speed up. He waited for the wide green eyes to find his, and for the hesitant nod. 

"Close your eyes," Crowley said. 

"Why?" Dean asked, but he complied before getting the answer. Crowley slipped a blindfold around his eyes. 

"Shhh, relax," Crowley said and leaned forward so that his lips brushed the top of the fuzz on the back of Dean's neck. As he cinched it tight, he tilted Dean's head to take his lips mouth in a soft, sensual kiss. He hesitated when he pulled back. 

"Do you want to do this?" Crowley asked, and as soon as the words left his mouth he blinked in surprise, staring at Dean's blindfolded face . "Do you trust me?" It was stupid to ask, but in for a penny. . . He knew, of course, what the answer would be. Whatever the initial attraction, it could not have survived the day's events, pleasurable though they had been for both of them. Crowley wondered what thoughts were swirling in the boy's mind. He frowned when he realized that the answer was important to him. 

"Yes," Dean finally answered. 

Crowley swallowed and blinked. Oh. Unexpected. 

"Good," he said, simply. When he pulled back, he wrapped a gag around Dean's mouth. 

"Here we go," he said, and reached behind him.

***

Crowley contemplated a suitable retaliation to Azazel's dismantling of his Vancouver operations. He he went through a mental list of options as his eyes traced the edge of Dean's cheek. What had the demon messenger meant by 'his kids'? He'd been too incensed to examine the phrase properly. He would have to—Dean, awake and watching, made him lose his train of thought. He waited for the inevitable outcry. 

"In the morning, I go home?" Dean's tone was off, and it wasn't the insistent demand to be released that Crowley expected. He thought of their first meeting at Crossroads. 

Crowley nodded and, in an uncharacteristic move that he would almost certainly examine in great detail later on, he nonchalantly bent down and kissed Dean giving his nod the power of a crossroads deal, and ensuring that he wouldn't be able to change his mind. 

He could have easily expanded the "virginity" to a near endless list of first-times—the terms of the contract had been left dangerously wide open to interpretation. He did not want their time to end and had the means to ensure that Dean remained his for a very long time . . .but he was going to release him. He frowned. He would need more time to evaluate the feeling. It was new, and not unpleasant, but it left him unsettled and . . . incomplete. Dean being here messed with Crowley's head; it would be better if he left. 

A shiver ran through Dean and he wrapped an arm around Crowley's shoulder and deepened the kiss. Crowley lost himself in warmth and gentleness with delightful steel strength underneath. Dean's abrupt twist and surge forward took the King of the Crossroads by surprise. 

Crowley lay on his back and looked at Dean who now straddled him. Dean reached over to a nearby wall display, turned a painted vase around, and pointed at the two entwined figures. 

"Then there's still time for this," Dean said, and Crowley caught the tossed vase. Crowley's bemused smile faded slightly as Dean moved above him. One more roll in the dirt before he let the boy to return to his shiny fake life . . . 

***

"Wait!" 

Crowley winced, pausing with a foot through the door as he heard Dean call out. He should have left earlier. He'd intended to avoid this scene. The two demon guards outside the antechamber door wore a suitably blank expression. 

"The contract? My dad?" Dean asked. 

Of course. 

Steeling himself, Crowley turned around. With a snap of his fingers he felt the reverberations of power as the crumpled contract on the table burst into flames at the same time as the matching contract etched on John Winchester's bones was removed. 

"Done." Crowley said. He wore his business mask, efficient, cold. "Then our deal is concluded. Both parties have lived up to their end of the bargain, if I may say." Crowley paused and scrutinized Dean's face. He only saw confusion. "It was a pleasure doing business with you. I will have Tweedle-dee over there escort you to Winchester the senior." He turned and took a couple steps towards the door before he hesitated and turned back again. "Your father is unaware of our deal. So you don't . . ." He pinched his lips closed in consternation. "I will not be enlightening him." 

The implication should be clear: Dean could keep this a secret and remain, in his father's eyes, unsullied by demons. Crowley walked through the doorway, waiting to hear something that never came. Nor should it, he knew. Just before the door clicked shut, he thought he heard a soft, "Thank you," but he couldn't be sure. 

"Tweedle-dum, I need a list of replacements for our Vancouver operation. . ." And he put Dean out of his thoughts as much as he was able.

***

Dean chose to go to college—not Stanford like his brother, but a local community college for academic upgrading. 

Dean had a busy schedule, but had done well on his first few evaluations. 

Dean's favorite place to eat was the pizza joint on the corner, and he seemed to prefer to study alone rather than with the study group his classmates had formed. 

Dean had moved out of his father's place and got himself an apartment not far from campus. 

Dean went out to the bar with his friends and occasionally left with a random male companion, but it didn't happen often. 

Dean spoke to Sam (who was also doing well according to Crowley's sources) once every couple weeks. 

Dean had seemed surprised by the money in his account, but he had seemed less surprised the following month and the month after that, even though the bank manager had been unable to tell him where it came from. 

Dean slept. . . 

"Sir?" 

"Hmm?" Crowley brought his attention with difficulty back to the matter at hand. The link with Dean Winchester was still there, even at a distance, pulling at him. For months he hadn't been able to concentrate. Twelve demons, stood before him in bleeding meat-suits, and most watched him with a disquieting mix of caution, anticipation, and patience. Circling sharks. "Oh yes," Crowley said, racking his brain for some memory of the case that had just been presented. Nothing. "You!" Crowley pointed to the lowest member of his little court. "Tell me how you would deal with this." 

"I . . . uh . . ." the young demon's eyes roved the room as he tried to come up with something that would win him favor with his boss and might not get him killed. It was, Crowley knew, a very fine line. "I would kill half of them for wasting your time, and make the others sort it out themselves." Crowley blinked and took a closer look at this one. He had a future. "Done." In a snap of his fingers only six still stood, looking somewhat shaken. "Stop wasting my time with this foolishness!" he roared. "Go!" 

With that dismissal, he found himself alone. 

Dean had . . . 

The call took him by surprise. 

"Yes?" Crowley said. "It had better be important." The connection wasn't the greatest. The blood bowl had been filled earlier, but it obviously needed to be replaced. 

From the depths of the bowl, he heard one of his crossroads demons."Someone called me to a crossroads," the demon began. 

"That is your job." Crowley said, and his tone was bone-dry. 

"Dean Winchester." 

Crowley sat up straighter. 

"What did you say?" 

"Dean Winchester summoned me." 

"Oh?" Calm, quiet, deadly. 

The minor crossroads demon swallowed. "Apparently he thought he was summoning you." 

***

Crowley appeared in the center a footpath crossroads in a wooded area not far from Dean's campus. A few empty plastic planting containers lay to one side and Crowley observed that the tiny yarrow plants that slouched from recently dug holes hadn't been there long. An hour, maybe. Then Crowley looked up. Dean stared at him, relaxed and leaning on the back of a park bench, confident in a way he hadn't been the first time they had met. 

"Dean," Crowley acknowledged, keeping to business."To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

"Who wants to hurt my father? And Sam?" 

"Sam?" Crowley's voice was sharp. Who had defied his orders? 

"Sam's scholarship. He had it and then he didn't." Oh, that. He relaxed. 

"You know," Dean continued. 

"Yes." Crowley paused, then shrugged. "His name is Azazel." 

Dean nodded. "I'm going to kill him." 

"Are you?" 

"Yes," Dean said, and he stared, unblinking at Crowley. 

"Okay." He owed nothing to the other demon. 

Dean seemed surprised. "Yeah?" 

Cowley raised an eyebrow. "Is that all?" 

Dean's certainty seemed to have vanished, and now he just looked confused. "Sam said someone saved him the other day, from getting mugged. The person ran off after. . . was that you?" 

"No." Crowley noticed Dean's shoulder's sag. "I assign a couple of my people to watch out for him." 

"Oh," Dean's said in a small voice, but the defeatist position had disappeared. "You send me money." Crowley said nothing, and Dean continued. "Why?" 

"You wasted that deal negotiation," he said. "So I added a little something." 

"Thank you." 

Neither said anything more until the silence became too awkward. Dean nodded as if he had reached a decision. "I thought about our . . . that . . . the deal," Dean said. "This new business goal of mine," he continued, "fighting evil and all. I could use a partner." 

It was the constant surprise, Crowley thought, that made him so fascinating. The pull he felt towards Dean was too strong: he wouldn't be able to walk away again, if he did this.

*** 

"You know, we've met before," Crowley said, conversationally, as Dean led the way upstairs. His place didn't have an elevator though it was located on the fourth and topmost floor of the old building. 

"Um, yeah," Dean said, with a sideways glance. "At the casino. Not something I'm going to forget." 

Dean's words sent a tendril of warmth into Crowley's chest, and he could almost feel the words shimmying inside. 

"No," he said, anyway, "not what I meant." The floorboards protested loudly as they began to climb the second flight of stairs. "Before that. You and I. We met, somewhere, sometime." 

"No, don't think so." 

"Yes. We did. Azazel." At the demon's name, Dean turned his head sharply and gave Crowley his full attention. "Azazel did something. Changed something. So that you and your Dad had a different path. It's almost palpable," he frowned in frustration. "Can't you feel it?" 

"I . . . don't know. Maybe. There's . . . something." Dean shrugged. "We met anyway." 

"Yes." Crowley watched the movement of Dean's ass in his jeans as they reached the fourth floor. Suddenly he wanted the man so much that, for a moment, it was hard to breathe, even though he didn't have to. 

"So he tried to keep us apart?" Dean said, walking backward slowly as he pulled Crowley through the door of his apartment. 

Crowley would have shrugged his shoulders but the motion was made difficult since Dean had crowded Crowley towards the nearest wall, beside the open door. 

"Don't know if that was the intention, but . . . yeah—best guess," Crowley said. Dean was removing his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders and reaching on either side of Crowley to slowly slide it down his arms. 

"Didn't work," Dean said, and unzipped Crowley's black dress pants. 

"No." Crowley smiled. "It didn't." 

"You lied, you know," Dean said. "You said you always keep promises." 

"Oh?" The only thing Crowley could come up with was breaking his promise to Azazel. But Dean could hardly be reproaching him for not condemning his father to Hell . . . 

He was distracted by Dean's leg that had pushed in between his, and Dean's hard cock pressing against his own. 

Dean nodded, and then whispered, a ghost of breath along Crowley's cheek. "My virginity." 

Crowley blinked in confusion. Dean was doing an admirable job of keeping him off-balance. Few people could do that. 

"The contract," Dean said. "I found something we never did." Dean pulled him the rest of the way into his apartment, and the phantom connection Crowley had felt between them solidified into something Crowley didn't think he could sever, and didn't want to.

End

**Author's Note:**

> Did you see? Amberdreams made me ART!!! It's sooo lovely! Please go let her know, [on her LJ, here](http://amberdreams.livejournal.com/325639.html).


End file.
